Free Manhandled by Austin Foxxe

acutely embarrassed when his gaze locked onto mine as if he had sensed my stare. I
     became even more embarrassed when he began to wade toward me. He walked through the crowd like he was haunting the place.
     People shivered and stepped away as he passed, but no one turned to see what had disturbed them.
    At last he reached me. His eyes scanned me up and down, then he turned and pressed his firm belly against the bar railing.
    Jamie was the bartender that night, like he is every Thursday night. I knew Jamie in the usual ways that gay guys get to know
     each other. He was the ex of an ex, for one thing. Furthermore, I’d sucked him off once in the sauna of one of the local bathhouses.
     I was pretty sure, though, that Jamie didn’t remember that little incident. The point is that the bar was a din of chattering
     voices and drumbeats, and Jamie was having trouble keeping up with the orders. He appraised Travis’s threadbare appearance
     and filed him in the “light tipper” category before turning his attention to the other clamoring customers.
    I found myself shouting, “Jamie, two beers.”
    Jamie looked at me, looked at Travis, then raised a disapproving eyebrow; but he dropped a pair of wet, brown bottles in front
     of us and scooped up the bills I’d laid out.
    “One of these for me?” Travis gave me a half smile.
    “If you want,” I answered.
    Travis stared at me for an uncomfortably long time.
    “Yeah, I want.” He took a swig from the beer I’d bought. I watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed, and I felt something
     kindle in my groin. Those flames were fanned when Travis shrugged out of his jacket, revealing a broad chest and beautifully
     muscled arms.
    “My name’s Jack,” I said, sticking out a hand in greeting.
    Travis took it, his hand warm and firm in my grasp.
    “I’m Travis. It’s a pleasure.” He released my hand, letting his fingertips graze my palm. He looked me in the eye as he did
     this, his eyes kindling with thinly veiled amusement.
    I was at a loss. I hate that awkward moment when you meet someone in a bar and it’s not clear whether or not you’re going
     to fuck, so you have to find something to talk about.
    “So, what do you do?” I hazarded lamely.
    “What do you mean?”
    “You know, your job.”
    He snorted into his beer. “Am I going to have to fill out a credit report, too?” His lips curled in a smile, signaling that
     he was enjoying my disorientation.
    “Just curious I guess,” I finally managed.
    He was silent for a moment as he stared out into the crowd. “I hate pissing contests. No offense, but you don’t care about
     my work. Fact is …” He turned to look at my face. “Fact is, I’d be disappointed if that was all you wanted.”
    His left hand slid down his side, his thumb catching in the belt loop, leaving his fingers curled next to the none-too-subtle
     bulge in his jeans. He watched me staring at his crotch, and then I felt his eyes slide down my body, giving me a similar
     appraisal. He gave a friendly laugh.
    “Look,” he said, ”I know what you want. You know what you want. Why don’t you just ask?”
    His face was blank, his expression very matter-of-fact. I felt my stomach churn. I felt something twitch a bit farther south,
     too. He stretched casually, his T-shirt slithering up his torso to reveal his abdomen and the recess of his navel.
    Maybe you’ll find it difficult to believe how hard it was to say what I wanted. In my mind, I could see him naked. I could
     hear the rumble of his throat as passion lowered his voice to a growl. I could smell the musk of him. I could taste the sweat
     of him. The desire burgeoned within me, but the words couldn’t get past the watchdog of my tongue.
    He downed the last swallow of his beer and waggled the empty bottle. “Thanks for the beer.”
    He started to slip on his jacket, and I knew with absolute certainty that he would leave—and that he wasn’t going to make
     this any